


it’s the promise you made

by oftachancer



Series: here in this moment [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Gen, How are you supposed to lead an army?, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, The Anchor is Painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: Aran Trevelyan - the seventh child off Ostwick's Bann Trevelyan - had lived a quiet, sheltered life in the Starkhaven Chantry as a historian and archivist’s assistant. Now, he’s been thrust into the Fade, multiple wars, and multiple timelines. Is it an accident? Fate?[I am terrible at writing summaries...]





	1. to read the collected poems of Sister Kilaria Montres de la Penza

9:41 Dragon

Three weeks on horseback and Aran was already prepared to call it quits. He wanted, more than anything, as the Temple of Sacred Ashes rose above the hill ahead, to turn tail and ride right back to the Waking Sea.

The fourth son and seventh scion of Bann and Lady Trevelyan, Aran had long since accepted his place. He was invisible. It had grated on him, once. At times, he’d hated the fact that he was often mistaken for a servant or bannerman. After all, the seventh scion wasn’t even a placeholder in a house like Trevelyan. In lieu of a complete catastrophe, involving at least twelve deaths, he was never going to amount to anything. Everyone knew it.

That wasn’t to say that he was treated unkindly. Far from it. He had been fed, clothed, and given a fine education. Like his brother and sister before him, he'd been sent to the Chantry, but unlike them - with no possibility of future inheritance - he'd been free to pursue his own interests there. Oh, he wasn’t meant to bring dishonor to the house or the name, certainly. Deportment was drilled into him. Which fork, what dance, whose signet ring… Lineage lines were things he could recite in his sleep. All very useful to a young man whose name was the first to be forgotten by those who also had to memorize those same lists.

It wasn’t that he disliked his family. He didn’t. They were wonderful. Passionate, quick-tempered, demanding of themselves and others. They were good people. Good, decent people. Who happened to have a great deal of wealth and power and connections. They cared, often too deeply, about just about everything, between them. 

Aran often wondered just what he had in common with them. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the state of the world or its people. The translated histories of the Dalish had certainly affected him when he’d read them, but whether that was due to empathy or the perversity of giving a shit about something no one wanted him to ever, ever talk about… he still wasn’t sure. He was odd that way, always had been. If he wasn’t supposed to talk about it, he had to at least know about it. For a boy with no future, no prospects, and no responsibilities, trouble was a calling. Never mind second nature; it was his first.

He'd learned the Chant, but often daydreamed during its public recitations, watching the play of light over the decadent sconces behind the Sisters, even when it was his own sister Leonora who was leading it. Perhaps especially then. He couldn’t wield a sword and shield like Maxwell or Patrick. He didn’t have that famed Trevelyan charm and swagger like Sam. He couldn’t throw fire like Miranda, nor dance or sing like Leonora. Even quiet, mouse-y Winnie had a gift for facts and figures that staggered him. And among all of them, with their golden manes and elegant cheeks, he seemed... less. Smaller. Thinner. Less symmetrical. Muted.

He was the last one noticed. If he was noticed at all. Forgettable. It took a long time for Aran to realize what a gift that truly was.

Ordinary.

He loved the sea. Loved to sit in a dinghy on the river, watching storms or reading or casting a line. He loved the quiet, dusty smell of old books and brittle paper. He loved watching, just watching, studying the expressions on people’s faces when they didn’t know they were being seen.

He stared balefully at the temple.

Aran should have been on a boat somewhere, or in a library, or in the back corner of a tavern writing in his notebook. Literally any other of his siblings would have been better for this Conclave. Miranda was a mage; her opinion about her own fate and the way she had been forced to flee her Circle - that mattered. Patrick had guarded Mages in Kirkwall for years, and hell, he’d been there during the First Rebellion. He could speak to what had led to the disaster. What had worked and what hadn’t. Winnie could provide a solid costs-benefits analysis for the economic instability the entire Mage-Templar war was creating. Leonora or Sam could probably charm and witticize the entire Conclave until everyone just agreed to let bygones be bygones. Maxwell was the bloody heir to the Banndom.

Which was the problem, he supposed.

For the first time in his life, Aran had been remembered. The ordinary, unremarkable spare was suddenly useful. As all the bright jewels of House Trevelyan scampered off to more important work where their presence was either required or would at least be firmly felt, the Bann had needed someone, anyone, as a representative to the Conclave, just to observe. Bring home information on what was being discussed and what was being decided. House Trevelyan wouldn’t attempt to change the course of history through spirited debate before the Divine; their wheels were turning elsewhere, where they would have more effect. And who better for such a task than the useless one who had been trained as a scribe and archivist? Whose only purpose in this world was collecting the stories of others and putting them down for more important people to read later.

And there was, he reminded himself, the possibility of slipping off to read the collected poems of Sister Kilaria Montres de la Penza, whose limited works were only available at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the Grand Cathedral of Orlais. That, and after three weeks of riding, he was looking forward to being on his feet again and eating something other than dried fish and drier bread.

 

* * *

 

The Temple was packed. Voices were raised in every corner.

Aran ducked and slid between men in full armor, chantry sisters in flowing robes, house banners leaned awkwardly against walls…

Too much, too loud, too many faces searing into his memory, too many snatches of conversation being patchworked together in his mind’s eye. The Divine was just that, the only point of peace in the whole room, and when she retreated to her midday prayers giving the heightened energies in the room a much-needed opportunity for a break, Aran escaped, too. They weren’t getting anywhere, that much was obvious, despite both sides desperately wanting to be done with this madness. The matter of _how_ was not something that either side seemed willing to compromise over. He wrote a note on the lack of progress, dropping it into the satchel of the messenger who would be taking leave at the end of the day for Ostwick, and slipped out of the audience chamber.

An hour. They were given an hour’s reprieve and, by the Maker, he was going to take advantage of that hour. He wandered the largely abandoned halls of the chantry, poking his head into doors, looking for the library. He’d find those poems by the end of the conclave if it killed him. Once they were in his head, he could enjoy them for the rest of his life. Maybe even transcribe them so more copies would be available. He'd always disliked the Chantry’s tendency towards keeping information to themselves.

The ornate carvings in the heavy oaken door seemed promising, so he tried opening it, but it wouldn’t budge. A glance around reassured him he had a few moments to test his theory and he knelt before the door, pulling a small pouch of picks from his doublet and sliding the pins out of the way. The door felt… itchy. Wards, probably. Better and better. If it weren’t the library, there was at least something interesting in there.

He slipped the picks back out of sight and stood, carefully pressing the door opened…

“Maker’s tits…” he groaned, shaking his head and immediately regretting it. His vision blurred, doubled, and he threw up the eggs and biscuits he’d had for breakfast. All over the… black rock... pitty and glossy... volcanic? He squinted up and around, still nauseous and bewildered.

Greenlight, floating mountains, strange circular shards of obsidian roasting aimlessly in midair… He didn’t have time to begin questioning it when the too loud sound of scuttling in the darkness ahead made his skin crawl. He stared in horror as leg after leg after leg flicked over the uneven ground… ceiling… was he upside down? Too many eyes, dripping fangs. Upside down or inside out, he was getting out of here.

He turned and ran. Because. Spiders. Giant spiders. Maker, but he hated spiders. Above (below?) and ahead, he could see a bright light and a white marble stair and he made a break for it, stumbling and gasping, as he clambered up and away from the glistening fangs and too many hairy legs. A hand grasped his own and he felt a strange popping sensation in his ears. The light expanded, seared, blinded him.


	2. pier-pressure

The snow crunched under his boots as Aran walked. He made sure to make the noise on purpose. Despite the Breach being stabilized - the odd collection of people who had congregated and were continuing to arrive in Haven were still jumpy. And armed. Whatever they called Aran now, whatever they believed he was - in the dark, in fear, he was just another target for them to swing or shoot at.

He frowned, kicking a snow-covered log towards the stuttering bonfire in the middle of the camp, rolling it into the flames and dropping to his knees before the fire. Maker, he was exhausted. A week. It had only been a week. He still hadn’t had word from Ostwick. He wondered, had they heard it was his fault? Did they believe that? Was that why…? Or maybe the messengers had just been murdered by demons from the sky.

The shadow that brushed past him on the flames was small and stocky. “Varric,” Aran murmured by way of greeting.

“Glad I caught you alone.” The dwarf offered a sturdy silver flask and Aran took a swig of strong, spiced liquor before handing it back.

“Thanks.”

“Beats the chill here, a little anyway.” Varric sank into a stump near the fire and sipped from the flask before tucking it away. “So, now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, are you holding up alright? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

Aran laughed, the sound cracking, bitter and hollow, and echoing strangely through the mostly quiet camp. “I have no idea what’s happening anymore.”

“That makes two of us.” He folded his hands on his knee, scooting a little closer to the fire. “For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“If it was that bad, why did you stay? Cassandra said you were free to go.”

“I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this… Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there’s a hole in the sky. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.”

Aran bowed his head, staring into the flames. “Yeah. It’s… yeah.” He frowned, “It's not-“ He glanced over at the dwarf, “You know I’m not… it’s pure luck that I escaped.”

“Good luck or bad?”

Aran rolled his eyes, “If I knew that, I’d feel a lot better. Either way.”

“You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

“I’ve more than considered it. The first time, a demon attacked me. Then, I was on my way back to the northern road and I found those notes Adan had been looking for. I couldn’t just let people get sick because he didn’t have the recipes he needed, could I? Then I was going to just head north right after talking to Mother Giselle-”

“But she wanted you to go to the Chantry in Val Royeaux.”

“Right. Which, as you’ll recall, was a rousing success…”

Varric lifted a bushy golden brow.

“I’m not running anymore.” Aran scrubbed a hand through his hair, shaking loose some freshly fallen snow. “I want this thing closed. I want to know what happened, to the Conclave, to the Divine, to me-“ He flexed his left hand, eyeing his palm and its pulsing light with suspicion. “I just wish there were a way to do it where- I’m not the Herald of Andraste. I’m not the herald of anything. I’m no one.”

“You’re not no one. I heard Josie calling you Lord Trevelyan.” He cocked his head to the side, “Which _is_ Ostwick. So I was right.”

Aran laughed hollowly, “Yes, it’s Ostwick. But it’s… a technicality. I’m the seventh of seven. I can count on my fingers and toes the number of times anyone’s called me ‘lord’ before I came here. It’s not me. And even if it was,” he went on, rolling over whatever Varric had opened his mouth to say, “it’s not- I’m- Maker, I hate them looking at me. All the time. Like I’m about to… I don’t know. Float or shit roses.”

Varric choked on a laugh. “That I’d like to see.”

“They don’t know me. They wanted me dead a week ago. And now they just… watch me expectantly. As though I’m supposed to save them all.”

The dwarf rested a chin on his fist, thoughtfully. “Well, you kind of did that already. Kind of.” He repeated at Trevelyan’s look. “It’s a start.”

“Making enemies of the Templars and failing to convince anyone in the chantry to come to our support… yes. I’ve been a rousing success so far.”

“No one said hero-ing was easy.”

“You told me to run.”

“I said 'consider running'.” Varric tapped his fingertips together. “And you did. And you’re still here. Now what?”

Aran shook his head, “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“Well, maybe while you do, we can try to help just a little more.”

Trevelyan nodded absently, flexing his fingers. “Cullen says we need manpower. Have you heard of The Bull’s Chargers?”

“Can't say that I have,” Varric shook his head, “but that doesn’t mean much. Kirkwall had strict rules about what mercs could work the city. You thinking of hiring them?”

“I’m thinking we should at least see. Right?”

“Don’t ask me, you’re the Herald.”

Tired blue eyes lifted from the flames, the frustration petering into humor as he saw Varric’s tongue in cheek expression.

“If they’re going to say it, you might as well have fun with it. You grew up with nobility, even if you don't feel like one of them. Maybe throw your cape around a little.”

“I don’t wear a cape.”

“Maybe you should. I bet Harrit would make you a nice one, maybe with Trevelyan livery.”

“A cape with a big picture of a horse on it?”

“ _That’s_ your livery?” He paused, “Is it at least a pretty horse?”

Aran laughed, the tension he’d been carrying suddenly cracking apart, “Plough.”

“Now you’re just shitting me.”

“'Modest in temper, bold in deed'… not so creative in design.” The ‘Herald’s’ laughter softened to a chuckle as Varric snorted. “So… Storm Coast?” He smiled the first true smile he’d worn since the whole mess had begun. “Maker, I’ve missed the sea. It’ll be good to see it again.”

“Ah… I ‘sea’ what you did there.”

Aran laughed despite himself, “It'd be ‘swell’ if you’d tone down the puns.”

“I’ve never been one to submit to pier-pressure.”

 

* * *

 

Between the rain and the salt spray of the waves crashing against the shore, Aran was in heaven. Cassandra looked like she was one inch away from either combusting or rusting. It might have been the water logging her armor.

“Right, we’re here, let’s seas the day!” Aran beamed.

Or it might have been the puns.

“Shell we see these mercenaries then?” Varric asked.

“Enough!” It was definitely the puns. She snapped, “I’ve had enough of both of you.”

Aran glanced sideways at Varric, “She wants me to be more sofishticated.”

The Seeker groaned, ready to let loose a lecture on the duties of his representation if the Inquisition again when the sounds of fighting ahead distracted her. Solas tilted his head to the side, watching her rush forward into the fray. “It’s possible that you two have made her suicidal.”

“Nah, she likes us,” Varric locked a bolt into his bow, “otherwise she’d have made us go in first. Isn’t that right, Ar-“ he looked around, “Huh, where’d he go?”

Aran slipped through the battle, looking for weak spots. His dagger wove, illuminating the weaknesses in armor- the bands of a greave, the laces of a breastplate, the cords holding a quiver to a back. Everywhere he went, sheaths fell off, bowstrings snapped, armor fell off or open. Figuring out the difference between the Chargers and the enemy was an easy matter, thankfully. The Chargers were the ones who were everywhere, whooping and swearing, like a swarm of drunk, happy wasps. And in the middle of them, the giant qunari swinging a massive hammer around him as though it were a light staff, knocking men back and shields asunder.

“Chargers!” The qunari shouted as the last enemy fell, “Stand down. Krem! How’d we do?”

“Five or six wounded, Chief,” a young man in slapped together plate reported brusquely. “No dead.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Let the throat-cutters finish up, then break out the casks.”

Aran wiped down one of his knives with an oiled rag Varric had suggested, slipping it into the torso sheaths.

“So, you’re with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. C’mon, have a seat, drinks are comin’.”

Aran glanced up, up, up. He’d expected the qunari to be talking to Cassandra, but she was away, sending a report back with one of Leliana’s agents. “Right, I mean, yes-” He sank onto a driftwood log, hoping that sitting would bring the giant of a man down to his level. Even sitting, the qunari was taller than him by a head. He’d never seen a qunari up close, but the descriptions didn’t do this man justice. He was seven feet, at least, all brute strength and thick corded muscles, and there were those qunari horns, yes, but they weren’t anything like what he’d imagined. Long and twisted back from a scarred, intelligent face. “Iron Bull, I presume,” he said, putting on the ‘deep nobility voice’ he’d been practicing with Varric on the way down.

“Yeah, the horns usually give it away.”

Aran took pains not to allow his gaze to slip back up to those horns. Maker, they were stunning. He itched to touch them, to see if they were rough or smooth. How deep the ridges really were. How much was shadow. Instead, he focused on the young man in plate mail from before, as he trudged over to them with a couple of massive wood tankards.

“I assume you remember Cremesius Aclassi, my lieutenant.”

“Good to see you again,” Krem acknowledged.

Aran nodded to him, “Same,” curious about the subtle shift of… pride? in the young man’s eyes.

“Throat-cutters are done, chief.”

“Already? Have them check again, I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem.”

“None taken. At least a bastard knows who his mother was. One up on you qunari, right?” Krem smirked, turning back to check again.

“So,” Iron Bull said, drawing Aran’s attention back from the shore littered with bodies. “You’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it. And I’m sure the Inquisition can afford it.”

“The Chargers seem like an excellent company,” Aran equivocated, wondering where the hell Cassandra was and why Iron Bull seemed to think that he was the one to haggle with. Maybe his green-ness was exactly the reason.

“They are, but you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me. You need a front line bodyguard, I’m your man. Whatever it is, demons, dragons, the bigger the better.”

Aran stayed where he was as Iron Bull stood, muscles flexing with the movement. It had to be in purpose, didn’t it? The words, the muscles. It was worth tilting his head back at the odd angle to avoid standing and showing just what part of his body he wanted guarded at this particular moment.

“And there’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off.”

He squinted up at the qunari as the sun pierced the storm clouds behind him.

“Ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?”

“They’re a qunari organization, right? The equivalent of your guards and city watch?”

“I’d go closer to spies, but yeah. That’s them. Or, well, us. The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. Sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

He wondered, was he was supposed to be impressed, or angry, or horrified? He was curious, instead. “You’re a qunari spy and you just… told me?”

“Whatever happened at the Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

“You still could have hidden what you are.”

“From something called the Inquisition? I’d have been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me.”

It was a good point. One that had Aran reconsidering the number of things he himself had failed to disclose up front to that self-same Inquisition. Maybe he needed to at least have a talk with Josephine. Explain how little she should be relying on whatever she’d heard about his family. She shouldn't be expecting people to come out of the woodwork for Bann Trevelyan’s youngest son, regardless of what kind of weird light glowed from his hand. “Alright. You’re in.”

“Excellent. Krem, tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The Chargers just got hired.”

“What about the casks, Chief? We just opened them up. With axes.”

“Find some way to seal them. You’re Tevinter, right? Try blood magic.” He glanced back at Aran, “We’ll meet you back at Haven.”

Blood magic. The words got his mind churning. “Ah…” Aran cleared his throat. “Just… hold on.”

“Second thoughts already?”

“No, I just- Let your men drink. We’ve got a camp just up from the coast. You can stay with us, and I’ll touch base with our agents in the meantime.” Aran kept his eyes on the crashing waves against the shore. He’d wanted a few days on the coast, but now his thoughts were whirling. Damn it.

“You… just going to sit there?”

Aran rested his fingertips at the bridge of his nose. “I’m thinking,” he said.

“Not what you’re known for.”

Blue eyes snapped from the waves to the qunari, “And just what am I known for?”

“The great and pious Herald of Andraste,” Iron Bull grinned. The effect was bracing. It had to be on purpose. “Closing rifts with that thing on your hand.”

Aran flexed his glowing palm reflexively. “And?”

“Not much else, to be honest.” There was that damned smile again. “And that’s saying something, coming from the Ben-Hassrath. We know things about everyone. Especially nobility. I can tell you things about your brothers and sisters that you probably don’t even know.”

“You think so?” Aran tilted his head to the side.

Iron Bull hummed quietly. “But until the Conclave… no word about Aran Trevelyan. Then again, we’ve only had about a week to dig into you specifically.”

“You’ll have to let me know what you find out.”

The qunari eyed him, that smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Will I?” he asked, thoughtfully. “Have to?”

“Herald!” Varric’s voice pulled him out of the dark pools of Bull’s gaze with its joviality. The thick-fingered hand that dropped to his shoulder was an anchor. “Did we make a deal?”

“That’s up to Josephine.” He tried to relax under the calloused palm, “And Leliana. Varric, the Iron Bull. The Iron Bull, Varric.”

“Remembered the ‘the’,” Iron Bull commented, sounding pleased. “Everyone always forgets.”

“Probably because it’s a mouth full.”

“You bet it is.”

Aran blinked. Grinned.

Varric glanced between them. “So… they’re staying…?”

“Yes.” Aran lifted a brow at Iron Bull who nodded.

“I’ll tell the boys,” he said before turning and heading towards his men.

“Big guy,” Varric commented.

“Everyone seems big to you.”

“Short jokes,” Varric sighed. “That’s beneath you.”

Aran smirked, gaze returning to the waves. “Do you think the Grand Enchanter might be able to help find a missing mage?”

“You know one?”

“My sister. We haven’t seen her since the Rebellion started. She was in the Circle, but when everything happened… no one knows where she went. Or if she’s okay.”

“No harm asking.” He whistled low, “So you’re going to go ask the mages for help. The Seeker will love that.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve disappointed her.”

“Now, now, you’re still alive. And unchained. It took me weeks of spinning stories to get out of her interrogation chair.”

Aran snorted. “Tough locks?”

“Tough armored guards with swords.”

“Ah.”


	3. every soul in the ashes

Aran flexed his fingers as the power in his palm leapt eagerly, fluctuating in rhythm with the Breach above. It had to be done, whatever the cost. He had come this far, his quiet scholarly life in the chantry so distant from his current existence that he almost didn’t recognize it any longer. He’d been a historian’s apprentice, sent to the Conclave as a scribe for his mentor. Since then - had it only been a few months? - he’d had to learn to fight and flee, hide and seek. The mark ached, longing to open a connection with the Breach, with any rift he came near, he could feel it like a living thing. Hungering. Yet without it, what might have happened? A blessing from Andraste, they called it, and he wondered if perhaps it was. It had given him the power to close the rifts, to save so many lives - and who knew where all those lives would lead? If it wasn’t a blessing for him, personally, it had been a blessing for the Inquisition. For the hundreds of souls they’d protected thus far. For Thedas. He tightened his jaw and gave Casandra the barest of nods, stepping away from both her and Solas so they couldn’t see his eyes. He prayed they didn’t know how afraid he was. He prayed no one ever would.

“Mages!” Cassandra commanded.

“Focus past the Herald,” Solas instructed, “Let his power draw from you!”

Aran wasn’t listening. All he could do was move forward, pray that Cassandra was right, that he was touched by Andraste, that she and the Maker knew what they were doing. Because if they didn’t, if this wasn’t right, then he and every mage and soldier and agent in this valley were all about to die. Or worse. The flesh of his palm buckled as he stepped into the outer flashes of the rift, lashes of Fadelight stretching through and down from the Breach like eager fingertips reaching out to brush his palm.

The heat grew slowly, steadily, until it was charring the bones of his hand from the inside in anticipation of the meal before it, sending streaks of agony through his veins. He could feel them being flayed open, blood pouring everywhere, muscles spasming and popping. He fumbled a well marked strap of leather from his waist pouch and shoved the thing between his teeth, biting down to keep from screaming, his entire body oscillating to the point where he was certain he would simply stop existing.

For a moment, he wondered if he would manage to wrangle his hand up before or after his mind was burned out from the inside. Then the beam caught between his mark and the Breach, his head thrown back as the current surged through him, swallowed by the purest power in existence, the source of all magic and dreams. Pulses of heat and cold slammed back and forth along the line of connectivity between them. He could feel his eyes burning, but couldn’t see, couldn’t move. His muscles all locked into place. Nothing. He could do nothing. The scent of searing flesh and ozone mingled in his nostrils. The back of his throat burned. He was nothing but a vessel for this thing as it used him to lap at the power in the sky like a dog in a desert.

Maker, but it hurt! There couldn’t be a way to survive this. Every muscle in his body seemed to be both there and not there, his skin raw and open to every brush of air like razors. He could feel his teeth pressing together through the thick strap of leather, grinding. Noises - like a thousand of his sisters’ rabbits all being butchered and skinned at the same time - surrounded his ears and he realized dimly, distantly, that those noises were curling out of his throat despite the strap. His vision doubled, cracked asunder, thousands of sparks of green light gathered and twisted, warring with the closing circle of darkness. His eyes were burning. His lungs. His heart. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move to escape, couldn’t think anymore past the pain - fire and ice - slicing him apart and blurring him back together so quickly, too quickly--

The blast that burst forth from the Breach sent him and every other soul in the ashes back, tossing them like pebbles to clatter on the ground. He lost his grip on the strap as the impact knocked the breath right out of him. Maker, he couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? His lungs felt paralyzed as he tried to drag himself up, dazedly searching the ground for the thick, folded leather before another wave could hit him.

Cassandra’s hand rested on his shoulder.

He shuddered beneath the weight of her gauntlet, barely avoiding collapsing under it, shutting his eyes hard. He could feel the tears streaking his face. His muscles still leapt and jumped and spasmed.

“You did it,” she announced simply and pulled him to his feet. He couldn’t open his eyes. They felt seared shut, too bright, too dark, too-

The rising shouts of relief and joy that resounded, echoing through the valley, beat at him like switches, sharp gashes in his shredded flesh. He couldn’t get his hands or knees to stop shaking. Fuck.

“You did it,” she said again, softer, collecting his weight to her side as she turned them to face the others.

He tried to tell her no, tried to beg her not to make him face them or anyone - not like this, not this torn apart shell of shredded flesh and energy-

She dragged his hand up into the air and the cheers intensified even as he bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming harshly as his flesh pulled and dragged and tore like paper, knitting itself back together, then tearing again. His vision blurred again as she lowered his arm and led him from the field, into a cart to take them back to Haven.

She was talking excitedly, he didn’t know about what. He couldn’t piece the words together through the buzzing. His heart was beating too fast, perhaps to make up for the time it had stilled. The frigid air sliced at his lungs.

Alone in his little cabin, he stood still for minutes - hours? - days? The lamps were too bright, but moving seemed...dangerous.

Strong, gentle hands curved around his shoulders, guiding him carefully into a chair. “Don’t say anything, it’s alright. I’m here with you.”

He wanted to sob, throw himself into Dorian’s arms and hold on, bury his face against that warm caramel skin and let everything go. All he could do was allow the Tevinter to tend to him, while he attempted to remember how to breathe, how to ignore the pounding of his heart. He threw up, twice, Dorian holding back his hair from his face, then removing the bucket before the stink could set him off again. Cool water between cracked lips, gentle pressure across the crown of his head. He waited for the spinning and buckling of the world to end.

It had worked. Was that what she’d meant when she said he’d done it? Or only that he’d survived? He wasn’t sure that he had. He fumbled at the straps of his leather armor, surprised to find it intact when he’d been so sure it had been torn apart just like he had.

“I’ll get it. Are you with me?” Dorian asked, peering into his eyes steadily. He unbuckled and unleashed, loosening the armor to give him more room to breathe. “Aran?”

He opened his mouth, yearning to answer, to ease the fear in the mage’s voice. ‘I adore you,’ he wanted to say. Or ‘thank you for everything, all of this’. Or ‘if I had met you when I was in the Chantry, I would have thrown every one of my books to the wind and followed you anywhere.’ A low, guttural, aching noise emanated from him and he pressed his shaking hands to his mouth, physically pushing the screams and sobs back down. Stop. Stop. Make it stop.

He wasn’t sure how long it took, how long before he could stop the gut-deep, muffled screaming, stop shaking, then climb to his feet. He threw up again, barely giving Dorian enough warning to grab the bucket. He didn’t scream after that. Everything had a haze of sickly green to it, as though he were still standing in that awful, endless current of power from the Fade. His hand looked… normal. As if hearing his thought, Fadelight buckled and flashed, escaping his skin. He shoved it into a thick leather glove.

“Dorian,” he rasped.

The mage looked at him with such tenderness he thought he might expire from gratefulness. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“No- I-“ he cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered, unsure if he trusted himself to get more than that much out clearly.

Dorian kissed the top of his head, reflexively, then drew away a touch, flushed. “On the contrary, thank you,” he regained his brisk confidence quickly. “Solas says you should take a little lyrium with Adan’s tonic, to help with the energy loss from the Breach. Can you manage it, do you think?”

Anything to make the room still again. He blinked, barely nodding his head. Sipped when the bottle was lifted to his lips. Was that… music… outside? “They’re…. celebrating?”

“You’ve won the day. You should be proud.” He patted his shoulder awkwardly, suddenly unsure now that the intimacy of care had passed. “I should let the others know you’ve come back to us. Will you be alright?”

“Steadier by the minute now,” Aran assured him, wanting to crawl into a hole when his voice cracked on the last word.

When the door closed, he stood again, carefully this time, staggering only slightly as he made his way to his bed. He slept for the next day, waking only when Solas or Adan prodded him awake. When he stepped outside the next night, it was snowing. The torches and lamps of the camp were all ablaze. Soft laughter echoed through the night air. He watched them dance. Maker, they were happy. Free.

“Solas confirms the heavens are scarred, but calm,” Cassandra told him quietly as she walked to his side. She was clear and concise. Methodical. He’d never been so grateful. If she’d asked him to smile and celebrate with the rest, he might have fallen apart all over again. “The Breach is sealed. We’ve reports of lingering rifts and many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread.”

Heroism. Maker, she must be joking. “You know how many were involved,” he told her quietly. “Luck put me at the center.”

“A strange kind of luck,” she agreed, considering him thoughtfully. “I’m not sure if we need more or less. But you’re right: this was a victory of alliance, one of the few in recent memory. With the Breach closed, that alliance will need new focus.”

The bells that suddenly jarred and jangled in the night air were not the sounds of celebration. Aran almost lost his footing as he turned to see Cullen rushing past them, drawing his sword free of its sheath.

“Forces approaching! To arms!”

Cassandra drew her blade, striding past, “We must get to the gate!”

Aran swayed in place for a moment, watching them go, watching the revelers dissolve into panic. He drew two healing potions from the pouch at his waist and slammed them back as one, allowing the little bottles to fracture on the ground at his feet. A liquid in another that Solas had encouraged him to finish over the course of the evening, to combat the effects of the Fade. He drained that, too. The potions made him feel more present, less shredded. He drained another, sputtering to look at the emptied bottle with its dregs of shimmering blue as liquid lightning poured through him.

“Looks like celebratory drinks are on hold,” Iron Bull muttered, knocking the bottle from his hand. “Try not to let anyone see you doing that, Boss.”

Aran nodded absently. His hand was still shaking, but the swat had helped a bit. He craned his neck, “Must have picked up the wrong pouch.”

“Shit-” Bull hissed, grabbing him by the chin. He did not sound pleased. Neither was Aran. “Maybe you should talk to the elf.”

Aran hissed, tugging his chin out of Iron Bull’s fingers. No time. “Let’s just… get through this. Maybe I’ll die and we won’t have to worry about it.” The potions were making him punchy. Good. He needed to punch some things. With his knives. He drew his daggers before Iron Bull could get hold of him again, slipping out of reach and heading for the gates.

“Cullen?” Cassandra was asking as he arrived.

“One watchguard reporting,” he lifted a missive. “It’s a massive force. The bulk over the mountain.”

“Under what banner?” Josephine asked.

“None.”

Aran stared at the gate. His heart was beating too fast now. Shit. Shit, shit. He jumped when Varric clapped a hand on his back, then jumped again when someone pounded on the gate.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” a plaintive voice called.

Maybe it was the buzzing haze of the lyrium or the Fade still riding him, but Aran strode forward as Cullen and Cassandra both swore at him to ‘not under any circumstances open that gate’. He shoved it open, gripping his dagger as he saw the templar staggering towards them. Then it fell, revealing the young man behind it.

Large, soft eyes gazed at him from beneath the wide brim of a hat. “I’m Cole. I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know.”

“What?” he asked, breathless, not sure if he was asking Cole or himself or… Maker, anyone.

“The Templars come to kill you.” Cole’s voice was low now, steady, something to grab hold of.

“Templars?” Cullen asked, “Is this the order’s response to our alliance with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One,” Cole rested one slender hand against Aran’s spine. “You know him? He knows you. You took his mages.” His fingers brushed across and down his arm, fingertips the barest flex from Aran’s, physically drawing his attention towards the mountain. “There. He’s very angry that you took his mages.”

The moment that brim hid those eyes, Aran’s world seemed to sharpen into focus. He could feel the trace of soft wind where he’d almost been touched. His skin was whole. His lungs eased. His heart steadied. “Cullen- Give me a plan. Anything.”


End file.
